


How To Care For Your Witcher

by Funkspiel



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier, Emotional Constipation, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Starvation, Touch-Starved, Whump, no beta we die like men, witcher biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: Jaskier felt his brows pucker into the slightest frown and not for the first time cursed Geralt for the wrinkles he would no doubt get because of the stubborn witcher and his stupid concepts of logic and reason – aka, his utter lack of either when it came to simple matters of health, wellbeing and general comfort.Witchers, honestly.Prompt: I feel like at some point on the road, Jaskier would have been like, 'I thought witchers didn't need to eat as much as ordinary folks,' and Geralt would have been like, 'Well, we can starve for a lot longer,' and Jaskier would have been kind of irrationally angry about it for a while.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 137
Kudos: 1633





	1. Thin

**Author's Note:**

> So Netflix!Witcher is broad and muscular AF, and so is Game!Geralt -- but he's rangy and thin in the games, too, and whenever he takes off his shirt to fight people COMMENT on how thin he is, so honestly, I couldn't fucking resist. So this is a mix of Netflix and Game!Witcher.

Jaskier didn’t notice – not at first, not for a long time. Despite his frequent travels with the white wolf of Rivia, he had never even thought to ask. Something entirely unexpected for a man as chatty as himself and it would not be the first or last time Jaskier kicked himself for not noticing. He had always assumed that witchers had very slow metabolisms or some other strange mutation that allowed them to better digest and absorb nutrients and make the benefits of meals last longer. After all, Geralt rarely ate.

Perhaps ‘rarely’ was too strong a word, Jaskier admitted, but even so he could remember just as many instances in which Geralt didn’t eat as he did.

But it wasn’t until he found himself sharing a fire with the man one night that the question finally came to him. It had been a long ride with few breaks; a ride that had immediately devolved into a fierce fight with a creature Geralt had been contracted to handle, quickly followed by another rough ride when the blasted thing had managed to fly away, wounded and bleeding. Thankfully it had left quite a trial to follow, low as it had been flying and bleeding as it had been – but it meant that the two of them were running off of fumes and Jaskier, for one, was unused to it.

Well, no. Not _unused_ to it. He had known hunger in his younger days, back when he had first left Oxenfurt to start his travels as a bard. Fame did not come without its prices – unless one had a very generous benefactor to start with, of course. And the price had been crude, cruel and simple: play for free, get his name out there, and starve until his music had the hearts of enough folk tied around his fingers that he might then play for pay. He wasn’t always hungry, of course. There had been more than one maid or village lass who had taken pity on him, in love with his blue eyes and silver tongue in that way young ladies – bored with village life – tended to sometimes be. But he had known hunger and cold.

Even though the years had been long since those meager days, even now he could not help but think ‘ _I remember worse hunger pains’._ That didn’t mean he enjoyed it though. And if Jaskier was good at anything – singing and writing and general charisma aside – it was whining and surviving.

He plucked the fluffiest bits of his bread from within the hardened crust of the loaf he had in his pack and moaned as that first tuff nearly melted in his mouth – too stale from riding to be properly soft, but hunger had blurred that line of reasoning into something far more fantastical and pleased.

“Gods above, I love bread,” Jaskier all but moaned, slumping on his log as if the taste alone had rendered him useless. He fluttered his lashes. Geralt grunted.

“Come now, Geralt. Even you with all your witcherly stoicism can’t deny that there’s nothing quite as good as bread after days of starving,” Jaskier pointedly out, plucking another chunk of bread and placing it on his tongue with another lewd moan – now purposefully so.

Geralt rolled his eyes, face canted down toward the fire as he stoked it with a stick, ensuring that the logs lay just right for the best flame. Jaskier continued on, too merry from his meal to stay his tongue.

“Food’s always best when drunk or starving,” he mused.

He remembered lectures about that, at some point in Oxenfurt. His studies, while fundamentally focused around literature in general, had varied. A good writer needed to know a little of everything, after all, and he was nothing if not thorough when it came to his craft. He could still remember an old bore of a professor going on and on about a human’s instinct to survive and that, when starving, food was often times described by patients to be far richer or more delicious than normal – even if that food was in fact bland or stale or generally something the patient might detest in regular circumstances. The body recognizes the necessity of eating, numbs the mind of any factors that might keep them from eating, and therefore everything tastes as if it had been delivered from the heavens themselves.

“Agreed,” Geralt said, setting his stick aside to stand. Jaskier watched him with childish passivity as the witcher went to Roach, filled a feed harness with grain or whatever it was he tended to give the ol’girl, and went about attaching it to her head so she might eat – obviously reminded of the task by their conversation. Then he attended to Jaskier’s horse as well, Daisy. That made something fond prickle in Jaskier’s chest.

“It’s stale and I don’t even care,” Jaskier continued to babble, breaking the hard crust off piece by piece now as he continued to consume his meal. Geralt grunted again, crouched by his pack again, and despite Jaskier’s assumption that the man was now finally fetching his own meal, the witcher instead returned to his place at the fire with his sword, a rag and some oils – and surprisingly no whet stone.

Jaskier rose his brows.

“Really, Geralt? I know you witchers have a frankly unhealthy relationship with your swords, but it can wait. Aren’t you hungry? Tired?”

Amber eyes met his overtop the brilliant flames of their fire. They seemed paler somehow, but the fire made it quickly difficult to hold the man’s gaze; even moreso to make out fine details. Otherwise Jaskier might have seen the hollows of Geralt’s cheeks beneath his riding stubble, or the dark circles that had made a home of the space beneath his eyes. Might have noticed he was paler than usual.

But he didn’t.

“Hmm,” Geralt said, eyes dropping back to his sword as he oiled his rag and began the lengthy process of cleaning it with the meticulousness of a witcher.

That gave Jaskier pause. He had seen the man fight. Geralt had described the Churt as a young adult, even though Jaskier couldn’t have imagined a larger Churt in his life. The point being: the Churt had been no babe, and while Geralt was a witcher of immeasurable skill, the beast had done its fair share of harm in turn. With the bend of its wing it had struck such a blow on Geralt’s right shoulder blade that it had tossed the witcher across a small clearing and into a try. Jaskier hadn’t imagined the wet pop he had heard at the time, nor had he imagined the gash the thing had landed on Geralt’s thigh and hip when it swooped down from above, talons first.

Geralt had excused himself to wash the worst of the fight off in a river, leaving Jaskier to settle Roach and start the process of picking up flammable tinder for the fire – something that once upon a time, he never would have trusted the bard to do. It made a little bloom of warmth grow in his chest at the thought even as dread slowly but surely began to curl in his gut.

He hadn’t seen Geralt take any salves or wrappings to the river. And if Jaskier was tired from _riding_ without food, he could only imagine how ravenous he might feel after riding and slaying a Churt on just as empty a stomach.

“Geralt, come on,” he repeated, the cheer he had felt from his bread now weak in his tone. “You should really eat something.”

“M’fine,” the man said, focused on his task.

Jaskier felt his brows pucker into the slightest frown and not for the first time cursed Geralt for the wrinkles he would no doubt get because of the stubborn witcher and his stupid concepts of logic and reason – aka, his utter lack of either when it came to simple matters of health, wellbeing and general comfort.

Witchers, honestly.

But not for the first time Jaskier tried to quell his sharp tongue if, for no other reason, because he himself was not a witcher and sometimes they were able to do extraordinary things due to their mutations. He tried to keep his tone light as he asked, “Are witchers able to digest their food more slowly or something?”

Geralt snorted, but under the crackle of the fire Jasker could not tell if it was the white wolf’s attempt at a chuckle or not. Jaskier plucked another bit of bread from his loaf, stuck it in his mouth and looked at the witcher pointedly – expecting a real answer.

Geralt grunted, cleared his throat in a manner Jaskier might describe as ‘uncomfortable’ in witcher-speak – a tongue of body language rather than words – and when it became obvious Jaskier would not fill the silence for him or move on, surprisingly answered.

“In a manner,” he admitted.

“In a manner,” Jaskier repeated theatrically, as if this in fact explained all the secrets of the universe, and nodded his head sagely, “Ever a man of many words you are, Geralt. In _what_ manner?”

Geralt blew a breath through his nose in a heavy huff, his eyes darting up in that way he did whenever he was gauging whether or not something was worth sharing with Jaskier. It appeared his distate for being badgered outweighed his dislike of talking about himself, because he kept his eyes pointedly down on his sword as he said, “Mutations.”

“Ah. I see.”

Amber eyes darted to him for a fraction of a moment – almost, dare Jaskier say, nervous; but he couldn’t be certain with the firelight. No, not nervous exactly… but without a doubt Geralt was anticipating something. Bracing himself, one might say.

His sword was already positively gleaming, but the man continued to focus on it as if it were rusted. When Jaskier threw a stick at him, staring at him pointedly, mouth full of bread, Geralt sighed – haughty and on edge.

“Witchers,” he said slowly, drawing it out as if unsure of how to proceed, “Adapt easily. Our bodies can speed or slow our metabolisms as needed.”

The bread in his hands felt suddenly too rough, too heavy. He had a terrible, awful feeling he knew where this explanation was headed, but he needed to hear it. Needed to know for sure.

“Geralt,” he said just as slowly if only to show Geralt that any cheerful playfulness in him had passed and that there was no escaping this conversation now. “What precisely are you trying to tell me? That you have an on-off lever for your _hunger?_ ”

Geralt blew out a breath through his teeth that stirred his messy silver hair. It was like pulling teeth, Jaskier thought, frustrated.

“We can starve a long time before it becomes a problem,” he finally said, clinical and blunt, as if he had said something mundane like ‘witchers are more flexible than most’ rather than ‘I can suffer starvation longer than mortal men before I’ll ever die’.

“Geralt,” Jaskier snapped, unsure of what he was even trying to say. The word had slipped past his teeth in a snap, unfettered and unabashed and wholly horrified. Geralt might have flinched, it was hard to tell past the fire, and finally Jaskier had had enough of the man’s cowering. He stood and rounded the fire – loomed over the witcher – and saw the nearly feral glint of the man’s eyes as he pointedly _did not_ look at him. Eventually, words returned to him. “Tell me this is some utterly terrible version of a witcher joke. Humor really does not suit you, you know.”

“Sure, it’s a joke,” Geralt deadpanned, something tight about the way he held his shoulders.

“Geralt!”

“What?” He finally snapped, the word nearly a hushed snarl when his eyes finally darted up to meet Jaskier’s and finally – finally – he saw it. Geralt was _thin_. It showed in his face, scant of even so much fat as to fill his cheeks, and from this angle the fire cast dreadful shadows in those hunger hollows.

Gods above, his gear. That’s why he hadn’t noticed, at least not yet. They had not exactly found a tavern in some time – sleeping outdoors provided little opportunity to disrobe or enjoy one another’s company in comfort. He had thought it surprising that Geralt had kept his armor on for more, if not all, of the trip. Now he knew – it was just as much a cover as the fire had been.

“Take it off,” Jaskier said.

Geralt blinked slowly, caught off guard. _Slow from hunger_ , Jaskier realized. Something no doubt made worse by the witcher’s difficult relationship with sleep.

“What? No.”

“Geralt.”

“I already did it.”

He meant his wounds, Jaskier realized, and for some reason that made him angry.

“Another lie!” Jaskier said in an explosion of hand movement, too wound up to settle his tendency toward the theatrical as he gestured at Geralt’s shoulders – at the way he was obviously favoring one side over the other, and continued, “I saw you go to the river. You didn’t bring a single salve with you!”

Geralt rolled his eyes – not so much a dramatic gesture as it was a minute flutter of his lashes – and said, “I’m a witcher, Jaskier. It’s fine.”

He had heard the story before. Witcher, in Geralt’s mind, appeared to be synonymous with ‘immune’. But even so, the man was generally good about salving and bandaging himself. His body was, after all, his greatest tool. And yet he hadn’t this time.

“You don’t have any food, do you?” He finally accused, catching on, “Or salves? Gods above, Geralt, why did you take this contract without those things!”

“Because I needed the contract to _buy_ those things,” Geralt said through his teeth, nearly baring them like his namesake might.

It was an argument that was quickly going nowhere, and Jaskier could not exactly pin point why exactly there was a kernel of fury growing in his stomach, searing him from the inside out in a rising tide. Instead he just made an utterly exasperated sound at Geralt, took a step forward – ignoring the tension that bloomed in Geralt’s body in reaction – and shoved the rest of his bread into the man’s hands before stomping off to his pack with a frustrated, “Why didn’t you _say_ you utter _oaf!”_

Geralt’s brows shot up.

“Jaskier, I can’t,” he said, eyes on the man as he held the bread loosely, his rag haven fallen to the ground. “This is yours.”

“And now it’s yours, you bloody idiot of a witcher,” Jaskier said back just as quickly, his tone almost lilting as he fell back into the comfort of jesting words to hide the anger in his gut that made him want to – he didn’t even know! Kick a tree, maybe? Punch a man? Tie Geralt down until he understood how to better take care of himself? Yes, that one. He busied himself with digging through his own pack on Daisy. His horse whickered at him cheerfully as he shuffled things around. He found another chunk of bread – this one smaller but better than nothing. He also pulled out a tin of cured meat he kept for emergencies, as well as a leather wrapped kit – crude at best – of what scant medical supplies he had come to find necessary during his trips with Geralt. Bandages, cheap salves, thread and needles. He turned back to Geralt, his findings in either hand, and nearly barked out a laugh at the sight of the witchere. The man had never looked more uncomfortable or out of his element, staring at him like Jaskier were a lion that might make of a meal of him rather than a wispy bard with bread, meat and medical items.

“You look as if I’ve revealed myself to be another Churt in disguise,” Jaskier said, coming closer now. Geralt moved, perhaps to stand, to flee, but not quickly enough – and that, in and of itself – convicted Jaskier on his path even more. He pressed a hand onto Geralt’s knee, cautious of where he thought the man’s wounds might be, and urged him back down onto the log as he took a seat beside him.

“Surely you’ve been without coin before,” Jaskier said as he delicately places the second loaf onto the cleanest bit of bark that he could manage, then the tin and medical supplies. Geralt looked like a cornered dog but Jaskier just kept talking, as if his babbling might ease the witcher into some modicum of familiarity and comfort. “I’ve seen you hunt. So why not hunt?”

He asked even as he _knew_ why. Geralt had already hinted at it. With a metabolism that sped and slowed as needed, it meant that his body had burned most of its energy in the fight. Now it was slowing again, drawing the warmth from his skin as his heart beat dropped to an almost unnatural rhythm. Hunting took time and energy. It meant Geralt was now in league with most wild predators – better to wait for an ample opportunity that promised success than to blindly waste it looking for an animal in the woods at night. Better to bide his time, even if that meant a gnawing stomach.

“No point right now,” Geralt said, confirming his suspicions. It was strange to simultaneously see the man as a predator and yet realize that meant that, in this moment, he was _vulnerable_ for the very same reason that he was _dangerous_.

“Right, of course,” Jaskier said idly, more focused on the task at hand now that he understood the problem, “Not to rush things along because I generally prefer to take my time disrobing my partners, but let’s go, Geralt. Eat your bread, off with your armor and such.”

Geralt stiffened, then held the husk back to him with a murmured, “It’s yours. I don’t need handouts. M’fine.”

The words _‘I’m used to this, it’s not a big deal’_ went unsaid – and wisely so. Jaskier might’ve given him a motherly wallop for it. Instead he shoved the bread back toward Geralt with a quick, “Yeah, well, if it’s _mine_ then that means _I_ can do whatever _I_ want with it. And _I_ want _you_ to _eat it._ ”

That, in combination with hunger, seemed to finally cow the witcher into some semblance of obedience. He pulled a tuff of soft, white bread flesh from its stale husk and went about eating it with far less drama than Jaskier had. But the bard didn’t miss the way the witcher’s fingers nearly – _nearly_ – trembled. For the first time he realized the problem might be far worse than a day or two without food. There was no telling how long the witcher had gone without before Jaskier had arrived to join him on his trek.

He realized with a start that he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know how long Geralt could go. He’d much rather focus on ensuring he didn’t ever go that long ever again.

Jaskier pressed into Geralt’s space with long arms and clever fingers, unfastening buckles and straps around Geralt as the witcher ate. He pulled off his chest armor and had to bite his tongue not to hiss. The witcher’s shoulder was a mass of purple – masked except for where it peaked out beneath the hem of his collar, but telling nonetheless. It’d heal, Geralt always did, but it didn’t mean the man needed to suffer while he did. He tugged at Geralt’s shirt, easing it over his head as he sighed, “For a man as adept and trained for survival as you are, Geralt, you’re an astoundingly huge idiot.”

“Wow, thanks,” Geralt mused, a chuckle blurred around the edges of the words, muffled as the shirt slipped over his head and—

Jaskier had to bury his teeth into his knuckles to avoid spitting out the first, dramatic invective that sprung to his tongue. But by Melitele’s tits, the man was deceptively built looking for a man as thin as he was at the moment. With his armor on he looked like a brick wall – tall, broad and built for tasks no normal man could handle. But beneath all that, even as muscled as he was, the truth remained that the white wolf was thin as a rail almost. He tried to remember the last time he had seen the witcher, the last time they had shared a room, shared each other’s company. He _was_ a surprisingly lithe man for someone so accustomed to a job like witchering – but he hadn’t been _this_ thin. He must have been decently fed, last he saw him, because now Jaskier could almost swear that if he had a hand on either side of Geralt’s hips, his fingers would nearly touch. An exaggeration, and yet, he didn’t want to try in case he was right. He could see every rung of Geralt’s ribs, every knob of his spine. His stomach curved inward, even the musculature of his abdomen less prominent that he remembered. And his hips; the way they jutted even while sitting…

 _Gods above,_ _how long did he starve this time?_

Even faced with so much suffering, Jaskier held his tongue firmly between his teeth until he was certain he would not badger the man. Geralt knew how thin he was. There was a reason why he had kept his armor on with Jaskier. He had known the bard would fret. He had tried to hide it. Hounding him now wouldn’t reverse the effects of Geralt’s stint with hunger – but it would drive the wolf away, keen as he was to avoid confrontation and care like a Labrador unwilling to be bathed.

“You put even my boyish figure to shame, Geralt. Going after my job, are we?” He joked because he couldn’t bare the silence. If it were silent for so much as a moment longer he’d babble. He’d babble, and that would devolve to nagging, and he needed the witcher to sit still, to trust him. To finally, finally allow someone to care for him despite his conceptions about what was or was not his, and how far he could push the limit of witcher mutations before he pushed too far. Geralt snorted, back shivering like a horse shoeing flies when Jaskier ran two fingers lightly over his bruising. It was swollen, puffy; hot to the touch. Dark as pitch, made worse by the flickering light of the fire. He opened one jar of salve, coated a few fingers liberally, then went about rubbing it into the man’s skin as gently as possible while still working it in to the muscle and damage before. Geralt moaned – Jaskier couldn’t tell if it were pain or relief, but he continued regardless.

“Hardly about to start singing in pubs,” Geralt mused, evidently just as eager to settle back into some semblance of normalcy. Unused to being the one being taken care of rather than doing the protecting. It rankled him something fierce, muscles tight under Jaskier’s hands.

“Yes, well, maybe you should consider it,” Jaskier said lightly, dipping his fingers back into the jar for more, “With a voice like yours, you’d be quite exotic for the trade. Women would swoon at your feet – if you can hold a tune, of course, very important. Pubs tend to feed their bards. Pay’s good, too. Better than…” he trailed off. It felt too raw, too cruel to take a shot at Geralt’s profession now when the wolf was so bare and vulnerable. Here Jaskier had taken his armor and his wrappings, both physical and metaphorically, and exposed the witcher for what he was: mortal, self-abused and exhausted. To go on felt like a moot point, like kicking a man while he’s down. It felt wrong to acknowledge once more that witchering was a thankless trade. Painful, even, when Jaskier knew Geralt risked his life often, protected thankless assholes that tried to fleece him often – and he starved himself to do it, too.

Geralt made a sound Jaskier couldn’t quite navigate.

“Eat the meat in the tin as well,” Jaskier guided the conversation away, tone light despite the way his breath hitched in his chest seeing Geralt like this.

“Jaskier, this isn’t necessary—”

Jaskier’s hands drew still on Geralt’s back. Something swollen twisted his chest and throat into something thin and strained as he said, “Please, Geralt… if for no other reason than to appease me. I may not have a witcher’s metabolism, but I’m tired as well.”

The tin squealed lightly when Geralt opened it. The same of dried pork wafted up lightly – stronger when Geralt took a slice and held it over his shoulder with a gruff, “At least eat some, too.”

Jaskier would have laughed if the whole situation wasn’t so fucked up. Instead he just hummed a pleased, “How thoughtful,” and took the morsel directly from Geralt’s fingers with his mouth, unwilling to touch it with his salve-greasy fingers. Geralt was more comfortable with that gesture than being taken care of, and Jaskier decided then and there that he’d have to work on that.

Geralt ate the jerky and Jaskier sent a quick halfhearted prayer of thanks to the gods on the off chance they were real even though he was pretty sure they weren’t and mainly enjoyed referencing them for how colorful they made his curses. Once the worst of Geralt’s shoulder was handled, he ran a hand over the rungs of his ribs down to the – sharp, too sharp – jut of his hip and asked, “Did you actually attend to those gashes or do I need to strip you completely?”

“They were shallow enough. Nearly healed,” Geralt grunted around a strip of meat. Jaskier looked at him pointedly, brows raised, and Geralt offered a grumbly, “Truly. It’s fine.”

Jaskier waited another beat for added affect before capping the jar with a soft, “Alright, Geralt. I trust you. But if they’re not gone in the morning, please put salve on them?”

Geralt grunted at that, and Jaskier took that as a sign of victory.

Much of the tension had eased from Geralt’s shoulders now, but there was still a great deal of exhaustion under his eyes and in the shadows of his cheeks. Jaskier wiped his hands clean on a rag, watching the witcher eat with a strange fondness in his gut he couldn’t quite name. He was unused to this, he realized. Not just with Geralt, but in general. In brothels or taverns or even with the witcher, his relationships had been centered around passion and drive. The need to fulfill his desires with lips and fingers and teeth. He had shared meals and treats after with maidens and men alike, of course, and had even himself been cared for some. But had never really done the caring himself and mostly certainly not in a context as benign as this. He had never felt the urge to. No one ever stuck around, after all, and both parties were only ever fulfilling the same selfish desires only…

This was difficult. Geralt was different. Jaskier wanted to help. They wouldn’t lay together, not tonight. There was no ulterior motive, no benefit other than… Well, other than Geralt’s comfort and safety. Jaskier’s hands stilled in his rag, gaze caught a bit wide-eyed on the snacking witcher when suddenly Geralt’s own amber eyes lazily caught his, no longer as edgey as he had been.

“What?” The witcher asked, the idiot.

“Nothing,” Jaskier chirped quickly, eager to cover the sudden revelation before he had time to properly turn it over in his mind and understand it. He tossed the rag at his pack and for once he was the one avoiding the witcher’s gaze as he said, “I was merely thinking about how lucky you are to have such a handsome and selfless friend such as me. Talented, charming and capable in the woods – you were born beneath a lucky star to have met me. What would you do without me?”

Geralt snorted again and _that_ , Jaskier could tell, _was a laugh._ He grinned in return, back on familiar footing, and came to sit thigh to thigh with his witcher. Geralt hummed, curiously close to a cat’s purr, and Jaskier had the oddest urge to run his fingers through the man’s hair just to hear more of that sound.

“Starve a little longer, I suppose,” Geralt said, playfulness dulled by the truth in it. Blunt, daft ass of a man. Jaskier stretched his legs before him, forced himself not to go off on another tirade unless the witcher – too used to doing things only on his own terms – shut down after all the work the bard had done to loosen him up that evening.

“Yes, well, from now on what’s mine is yours, Geralt. I’ll pack accordingly.”

Geralt stilled.

“—Jaskier, you needn’t trouble—”

“If you’re starving you can hardly protect me or perform those heroic acts of inhuman deeds I do so love to sing and profit off of, can you? Consider it your cut in the fame you’ve brought me with your witchering,” Jaskier said cheekily, eager to cover his own vulnerabilities like the coward and hypocrite that he was. Something stole across Geralt’s face, something unidentifiable, and Jaskier felt his gut curl ever so slightly.

“Of course,” Geralt said. Jaskier felt the slightest bit of distance grow between them suddenly, their comradery turning the littlest bit stale. Guilt stabbed him lightly. The fire crackled. “That is why you come, isn’t it.”

It almost… almost seemed as though Geralt was disappointed by that – mildly, as witchers tended to be, and yet more poignantly because of that.

Well… he had stripped Geralt of his manly pride, his clothing and his illusions of not being a twig. The least Jaskier could do was offer some boon in turn. Even the playing field, so to speak.

He sucked in a breath, let it go slowly, catching Geralt’s attention because of it.

“It started that way, yes. Though not wholly for the stories or the songs… But now… Geralt, I would follow you even if there were no story to sing about in some pub,” he admitted. “If one of our trips just comprised of us dozing under willows by the river, I’d join you. I’d keep the songs just for myself. Sing them to you. Maybe it’d help you sleep.”

Geralt watched him for a long time. Jaskier began to fidget, his neck burning and no doubt red as the silence made his words sound more and more ridiculous. He was just about to say, ‘forget it, I’m just daft with exhaustion, you know how it goes,’ when finally, Geralt spoke.

“What would you sing about then,” Geralt asked slowly, carefully, “If not about whatever I killed?”

Geralt was staring at him, his face a blank sheet, and Jaskier felt prickly all of sudden, frustrated that the witcher could so easily hide while he was weak to expressing himself at the drop of a hat. But the moment felt important to Geralt regardless, somehow the bard could just tell. Perhaps it was his increasing fluency in the wordless speak of witchers. The worst of that dazed, hollow hunger-glaze had retreated from those amber eyes. Still there around the edges, but otherwise focused on him in a manner Geralt rarely allowed himself to do.

“I’d have plenty to sing about,” Jaskier said softly, his protective, charming mannerisms falling away layer by layer under those eyes. “I’d love nothing more than to sing about the white wolf finally enjoying himself for a moment – even if that moment were as benign as enjoying an apple freshly plucked from the tree. Even if it detailed only the litany of your snoring or the way the wind dances in your ridiculously white hair.”

Geralt snorted, a wry twist of amusement to his lips as he looked out into the night and said, “Enough. I’m not one of your conquests from some backwater village or high court function. Stop blowing smoke up my ass.”

He should joke. It was his cue to joke. Geralt was offering him an out. He should joke.

“I could sing even about this,” he said instead, his eyes traveling to the dark bloom on Geralt’s back – proof of his mortality despite the legends Jaskier had hand in crafting.

“Some song that would be,” Geralt grunted, “No one wants to hear about a half-starved witcher. Sour the mood immediately.”

“Don’t be so shallow, you’re cleverer than that,” Jaskier chided.

“I’m daft, I’m clever – which is it?”

“Believe me, the contradiction frustrates the hell out of me too, witcher,” Jaskier chuckled, the littlest bit of a frustrated grumble in the tone as he leaned in, crowding the man. “But I stand by it. Perhaps that should be the next song I sing: how to take care of your witcher. Help some other fool bard out there who also fell head over heels for their witcher.”

“Your witcher?” Geralt asked, brows raised.

“Ears like yours, I know you heard me, Geralt. A mouse farts and you wake up. Don’t play coy with me.”

Geralt actually let out a soft huff of a laugh at that.

“How to care for your witcher… you think you know how?” He mused, too weary to fight or snap, it would seem – made soft by the salve and Jaskier’s hands. Steadier than the witcher from those early days, so skittish and closed off.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” Jaskier said, puffing up, proud. Geralt shook his head, exasperated, and Jaskier pressed, “I’ll start with feeding you properly, since you can’t be trusted to make sane choices. And anything after that, well… I’ll learn as I go!”

And that was as close to saying ‘I love you’ as he could get for now. The witcher too easily spooked, and he himself unfamiliar with this version of himself that loved beyond the first fuck. It wasn’t ‘I love you’, not yet. But if the witcher could show him his wounds, trust him with his back, well…

They were both learning as they went.


	2. Cat Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witchers don’t get sick – not easily. But they weren’t immune to everything, and their mutations certainly left them susceptible to quite a number of things. The genetic enhancements that gave Geralt his gift for tracking – his keen sense of sight, smell and sound – also left him vulnerable to overstimulation. It rarely became a problem, but even witchers had their limits; even if they would rather die than admit it.

Hello, dearest reader. If you have found this then you, like I, must be in the habit of sharing your Path with a witcher. It is my pleasure to share with you what findings I have made during my journeys with my own witcher. May the knowledge gleaned from my struggles spare you in the coming days from the sheer stupidity you are about to experience. Because witchers, as masterfully trained and clever as they are, utterly lack any capacity for self-interest. They were trained to hunt, to kill – to be a perfect solitary predator. However, their training has one very distinct hole…

And so, I wrote this book.

When it comes to caring for one’s witcher, it must be first and foremost noted with the utmost urgency that witchers, the bloody fools that they are, _do not communicate_. That means many a one-sided conversation is ahead of you, dear reader, but furthermore, it means simply this: do not trust your witcher to tell you he is hurting.

He won’t.

* * *

Jaskier was no stranger to the very wide, very strange collection of potions and decoctions that witchers carried on them at any given time. Things that helped them hold their breath underwater past human comprehension or limitations. Tonics that made their blood poisonous to creatures that might bite them. Potions that helped them heal quickly and others that gave them energy or made them immune to noxious gases. Witchers were nothing if not highly prepared for nearly any situation.

But that did not mean they were infallible. And it did not mean that their potions and decoctions came without a price. Jaskier just wished he had known that before Geralt had driven himself to such a sorry state.

It had started off benignly enough. Geralt had taken two of his famous potions – although, like usual, he did not precisely narrate to Jaskier _which ones_. Squinting in the shade of the cave’s mouth despite the kindness of its shelter from the sun, he told Jaskier to stay put and disappeared inside the earth’s yawning maw, slipping away into the darkness. He was hunting a poisonous toad, based off the stories from the villagers. A thing roughly two and half stories tall, going off their tales – which meant it was likely only _one_ story tall. But one story was more than enough toad-mass to crush a man. It was a toxic thing. It breathed dangerous green fumes and made a bed in noxious plants that were constantly releasing a steady spew of poisonous fog into the creature’s den. Jaskier assumed that one of the potions had been to combat that, of course, though he was still unsure of the other.

It also meant that Jaskier – all too human and unable to safely consume a witcher’s potions – really had no choice but to wait. Geralt had originally insisted he stay at the inn. But where was the adventure, the _story_ , in that? What if Geralt forgot something! No, best to be there while it was still fresh in case Geralt forgot. For the story, of course. No ulterior motives at all.

Jaskier had paced the cave idly for two or so hours. He’d take a few steps into the darker stretch of the cave, listening as hard as he could, before pulling back again. He babbled anxious nonsense to Daisy and Roach, both who merely snuffled at him appeasingly. Over and over, until finally his witcher emerged covered in goo and dragging an oozing toad head behind him. Jaskier nearly rushed to him before stumbling to a halt at a brusque gesture from the pale haired man.

“Still noxious,” he said bluntly, “Wait.” Before dragging the head off in the direction of the river, face screwed up into an unpleasant twist, as far as witcher expressions go.

Jaskier was grateful, he supposed. The man certainly _smelled_ noxiously, covered in guts and who knew what else. It was another hour before Geralt returned to him and the horses looking impressively cleaner for a man who had once returned to a bar slathered in creature guts from head to toe. It was… unlike him. He carried the head in a burlap bag now, the thing trailing the occasional clump of dirt or herbs or muddied ooze now and then. Geralt had explained it made the head safe to travel with for Roach and Daisy. Which meant _for_ _Jaskier too_ , of course, the emotionally constipated stick in the mud. But Geralt could have just as easily insisted Jaskier simply find his own way home, the road too dangerous to travel with Geralt and his poisonous toad head, so Jaskier took that for the olive branch of compassion that it was, even if it went unsaid.

He hadn’t noticed the way Geralt still squinted so obviously despite the overcast day or the way he kept his gaze distinctly downward away from the bright blue of the sky or the glare of the sun. He missed how large his pupils were, how they didn’t contract as they should – too high off the possibility of a new story and Geralt’s safe return.

Jaskier had blathered on as they begun their journey back to the village alderman, of course. He asked questions about the creature, about Geralt’s fight. What had the cave looked like? Had it been damp and sickly? Dark like the deepest paths to hell? Did it smell of sulfur or rich, wet earthiness? Geralt never answered, but then again Geralt rarely humored his questioning for finer details. He had offered up the basics though – in as few words as possible – poisonous toad, slick floors and moss everywhere. No bites, no dramatic wounds. Toad’s dead, nothing more to it.

It wasn’t until they were nearly halfway back to the village that Geralt began to show any true symptoms worth noticing. He was sweating, for starters, and pale as a sheet – and yet the day itself was brisk and pleasant. He kept snorting softly, like a dog trying to clear a scent from its nose, and occasionally he’d sneeze dryly – which just made the witcher wince something unpleasant. That was finally enough to make Jaskier comment and look closer.

“Geralt, are you feeling alright?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt had grunted, but the sound was soft by comparison to normal. As if Geralt was loath to make much more sound than a gruff whisper. Jaskier drew his horse to a stop beside Roach, their flanks brushing, and offered a hand to Roach’s long neck to steady her to a stop beside him as well. The fact that Geralt let him without so much as a word was more than a little worrisome. The witcher just furrowed his brow, mouth a taut line as he kept his eyes down on Roach’s neck.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said plainly, dipping his face to try and catch Geralt’s stubbornly averted eyes. “We’ve talked about this. Use your words, where does it hurt?”

It was a barb. A somewhat mean one at that, but Jaskier was scared, and unfortunately his silver tongue had a terrible way of getting ahead of him when he was scared. Geralt bared his teeth at him, a flinch caught sharp and tight in the muscles around his eyes and in the taut stretch of his cheeks.

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, but his hands were shaking. He wasn’t _leaving,_ wasn’t forcing Jaskier away. Which meant only one thing for a witcher as deadest on never admitting his weaknesses as Geralt: _he couldn’t leave._

“Geralt, I can’t help if you don’t—”

“—I don’t need your help, I need you to _move_ ,” Geralt snapped, each word as vibrant as the bared fangs of a snarling wolf, cornered and agitated. Geralt turned to glare at him then, more out of habit than anything, and that was when Jaskier finally noticed the explosive width of Geralt’s pupils, the way they didn’t quite land _on_ his face, but rather slightly over his shoulder. They left the thinnest ring of amber around them, flooding the man’s eyes with light, making him squint – and no doubt unable to see much of anything. He had been trusting Roach to stay on the path, then. And he had been trusting Jaskier to redirect her instinctively if she strayed. What with the time the two of them had spent together, Roach and Daisy had bonded in that way working animals sometimes did – keen to follow one another if there was no lead from their rider. He realized now that Geralt’s hands were largely on his pommel, reins loose in the tangle of his trembling fingers. He had been struggling to stay in his seat, deferring their journey’s navigation to Jaskier all this time, and the bard hadn’t noticed.

Witchers don’t get sick – not easily. But they weren’t immune to everything, and their mutations certainly left them susceptible to quite a number of things. The genetic enhancements that gave Geralt his gift for tracking – his keen sense of sight, smell and sound – also left him vulnerable to overstimulation. It rarely became a problem, but even witchers had their limits; even if they would rather die than admit it.

“Geralt, this is important,” Jaskier said softly, voice lower, and felt the twist in his stomach ease when that removed some of the tension from Geralt’s face. Whatever was going on, it was definitely tied to his senses. “Was it the toad that did that to your eyes? Or was it you?”

_Was it one of your blasted toxic potions?_

The question went unsaid. Geralt knew well enough Jaskier’s opinion on those potions. Amazed by the feats witchers could perform with them and yet constantly wary of the repercussions he knew Geralt would suffer in secret.

Geralt licked his lips – dry and cracked, another side effect of _some_ of his potions, Jaskier had noticed over time. The bard reached for his canteen as smoothly as he could without jarring the other man. He unscrewed the top slowly, quietly, but not entirely, and gently pressed it into Geralt’s hands. The witcher appeared as grateful for the bottle as he was for the fact that Jaskier had left the littlest bit of it left for him to unscrew on his own; the smallest illusion of self-control. Jaskier watched the way he drank from the skin of water and realized with a feeling akin to a stone dropping in his stomach that all this time Geralt had been thirsty and had not been able to see enough to find his own canteen in his pack. He had likely quenched the worst of it while cleaning himself in the river, but he had never asked for help after. Not once. And Jaskier had missed the significance of the few times the witcher’s hands had subtly fumbled around his saddle, searching for it.

Eventually Geralt handed it back – still half full – before Jaskier urged him to keep it in his grasp with a soft, “It’s not a long ride, go ahead and finish it. I can refill it when we’re back in town.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt croaked, frowning. Geralt didn’t like taking from Jaskier. Something about the fact that humans were fragile. Limited. Whether it was food or water, the bard had quickly picked up on the root of Geralt’s reluctance with resources. Jaskier didn’t let him argue.

“I can take yours if I need any, Geralt. It’s fine.”

There was a pointed statement between those words; _I know you had looked for it and didn’t ask for help._ One Geralt caught easily enough, eyes darting away again, mouth drawn tight. Caught. Frustrated. Bristly and edgy, and the slightest bit embarrassed.

“Toad or potion, Geralt?” Jaskier repeated.

Geralt held up two fingers, unwilling to speak; second option then, it was a potion. It was hard to tell how much of his discomfort was due to the situation that left him so mute or sound sensitivity. Jaskier assumed a bit of both. Geralt was acting not unlike a man hung over, after all, and the bard had no end of experience with that. Unwillingness to open his eyes, a desperate yearning to be somewhere dark and quiet. Jaskier had no doubt that the witcher might have stayed in the blessed darkness of that cave if not for the noxious clouds and the guts and the fact that his potions that granted him immunity to gas did not last forever. And they certainly carried a hefty price to ingest more. Namely blood poisoning.

“Can you take something to…” Jaskier gestured vaguely before he remembered Geralt couldn’t _see_ before continuing softly, “Clear the effects of whatever caused this?”

Geralt rubbed his thumbs into his eyes and shook his head. He _did_ have something for that though. Jaskier had seen him take it before, particularly on grueling hunts that required three or four potions at a given time. If Geralt hadn’t taken it, that meant something had happened in the cave. The beast must have hit him somehow – into a wall or even just a glancing blow – that had damaged his reserves. No wonder.

The story was beginning to come together now, pieces slowly falling into place. Geralt had taken a potion for the gas, this Jaskier knew, but one other as well. Dark as the cave was, even Geralt’s mutated eyes could not compete with complete darkness. It must have been a potion to further dilate his eyes and although them to capture more light than humanly possible. It was a powerful potion and a useful one at that – but Jaskier knew from experience that the times Geralt had taken potions like that, they had lasted the entirety of his time in the caves and had always needed another potion to clear the effects upon exiting. It was an advanced potion, after all; one Geralt had mastered to perfection. It could last hours, even longer. A good thing, if you didn’t know how long you’d be exploring the dark recesses of the earth.

Terrible if you had to return to the light of day before the effects had worked their way out of your system.

“Fuck, Geralt, why didn’t you say something?” Jaskier breathed, giving Roach and Daisy room between them so he might slide down onto his feet as quickly as he could manage and search through his pack attached to Daisy’s saddle. Thank god they had begun to explore other _pastimes_ when sharing each other’s company intimately recently. He found the satiny texture of the thing he had been looking for and pulled from his pack a long strip of fabric – long enough to bind a man’s eyes with. It was black as pitch, enchanted to absorb light rather than simply deflect it. What fun was tying a witcher to his bed if the man could see through a standard threadbare blindfold, after all? When he had bought the blasted thing, he had never guessed that his kinky purchase would become such a practical item toward the care of one’s witcher.

He remounted Daisy so he could reach Geralt easily and at first reached for the witcher’s face without warning the man – making him flinch back from the sudden sensation of hands near his face, muscles moving tightly to prevent himself from falling at the last moment. Jaskier stuttered out a broken breath and said softly, “Sorry. I’m going to blindfold you. It should help.”

Geralt’s lip curled at that, exposing one pearly incisor.

“You already can’t see,” Jaskier frowned, “How is this any different?”

_You were already trusting me to lead the way._

He watched Geralt clench his jaw, almost thought he could hear the man’s teeth grinding – but ultimately the witcher agreed with a tight, short little nod.

“Alright, good. I’m going to put it on now,” Jaskier said, more so that he wouldn’t surprise the man into another dangerous flinch again than anything else. Geralt sat atop his horse, stock still, his back ramrod straight, like a wolf scenting the air – certain something was about to go wrong but unable to tell how or why. But he allowed Jaskier to ease the fabric around his eyes and when the bard murmured softly, “Look away so I can tie it properly,” he dutifully exposed the back of his neck and head to him. Jaskier was careful not to twist any of the witcher’s fine white hair into the knot – taking his time with placing it, adjusting his hair so it fell comfortably around it.

“Snug? Too tight? Too loose?” He asked, not really thinking the witcher would truly answer but asking nonetheless.

“M’fine,” Geralt said, and that was about what Jaskier knew he’d say regardless. Geralt could have a spear in his gut and he’d say he was fine. The idiot. But before Jaskier’s very eyes some of the tension eased from Geralt’s face. His shoulders were hunched, uncomfortable with his total blindness now, and he still looked very much like a wolf with its ears perked – but much of the pain had washed away from his face. Geralt let out the faintest breath of relief and Jaskier felt something pleased bloom in his own chest.

This was, after all, no small feat. Who else could say Geralt of Rivia had trusted them enough to allow himself to be blindfolded and led? Geralt didn’t speak with words. In many ways he was Jaskier’s polar opposite. And there was a time Jaskier feared the two of them would never find common ground; that the witcher would never warm to him, never speak with him.

But in moments like these, the witcher spoke volumes. Jaskier just hadn’t been listening before.

The bard was a nervous talker. He yearned to speak, to blather – anything to fill the painful silence. But with every blessed moment of quiet, a little more tension left Geralt’s face, and while Jaskier normally had no qualms with ruining the witcher’s very limited idea of a peaceful journey – now he couldn’t bear to do it. Geralt needed silence. So Jaskier bit his tongue. It allowed Geralt to see with his ears rather than his eyes. It was also less strenuous by far.

And if Geralt occasionally reached for the bard to assure himself Jaskier was still there? Well, Jaskier didn’t mention it this time, though it did put a small, fond, surprised smile on his face. He shifted his thigh closer when Geralt’s fingers couldn’t quite find him. Even brought Daisy to a closer pace beside Roach so they might brush more often, more organically. And since, to a degree, Geralt did not seem to enjoy his _total_ silence, Jaskier would occasionally do something to make noise. A deeper breath, a soft scratch to his hairline, hum a very gentle, short tune. Anything to assure Geralt he had not disappeared.

For a moment Geralt had blessed peace. The water, the darkness and the quiet had done wonders to ease the man’s sweating and return some of the color lost from his complexion. But the closer they got to town, the more of that progress they lost. They weren’t even in sight of the place before Jaskier noticed the change in the witcher – pale again, fingers trembling lightly, tense and scowling. Jaskier drew Daisy to a stop and Roach obediently compiled as well, head tossing, searching for Geralt’s guidance in the reins.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt croaked, his body transforming from tight but moderate peace to alert in an instant, ears no doubt straining for any sign of trouble.

“We can’t go back to the village like this,” Jaskier said softly, eyes on Geralt; watching him plainly. “You’re already reacting to the sound of that place from here.”

Geralt scowled at that, but added, “And the smell,” and suddenly Jaskier realized he had not bathed purely because the fumes may still be toxic. It appeared his sensitivity to light had also affected and overstimulated his other senses terribly. Jaskier gestured to him and said, “Precisely my point. We can’t go back.”

“The notice—"

“—Can wait. It’s not as though another hunter is about to beat you to the kill, you _have_ the head in hand. We’ll go as soon as whatever you swallowed wears off. In the meantime…” Jaskier trailed off, twisting in his seat to look around them. There had been an abandoned bandit camp along the way. He remembered discussing it with Geralt on the way there – theorizing why the men had left their tents and gear behind. A monster? A rival group of thieves? Geralt had taken one look at the place and said, “I’ve been here before,” and that was all there was to it.

It hadn’t been far from here.

He reached over the reins toward the corner of Roach’s mouth and gently urged her to follow as he guided Daisy into a tight u-turn.

“Jaskier,” Geralt groused, stock still in his saddle.

“We’ll make camp in the woods,” Jaskier said simply – and surprisingly, Geralt did not argue.

A part of Jaskier still fretted whether or not he was making the wisest decision. They could go to town, buy whatever ingredients Geralt was lacking to recreate the potion that would remove the effects of the Cat’s Eye from his system – but that was a plan that hinged on the town having a herbalist, said herbalist having the ingredients in stock, and Geralt being able to _see_ to _make_ the blasted thing. He didn’t exactly carry around recipes, well, at least not his go-to ones; not when Geralt knew them by heart. There would be recipes in his pack for untested potions, sure, but that’d likely prove to be wildly unhelpful now. And Jaskier was not about to try and make one himself, lest he kill Geralt (or himself) by sheer accident.

Returning to town had its advantages though, advantages that weighed heavily on the bard’s shoulders as they rode away, deeper into the woods. In town he could at least urge Geralt to rest in a bed, even if he couldn’t control the sound or the smell of the place. They could rest in peace for however long they needed without having to worry about a bandit group or a creature happening upon them in the wood when Geralt was vulnerable. Not that villages didn’t get attacked – _they did –_ but it was less likely.

But the sound and smell of the place would worsen Geralt’s ailment. And no doubt the village alderman would want to speak with him the moment he rode into town. They’d have to store the head, negotiate coin – because villagers almost _always_ tried to walk back on their agreed-on price after the deed was done. It ran the risk of getting them run out of town if negotiations soured, even if Jaskier was confident he could outsmart a village alderman into giving them their deserved coin.

That would just land them right back in the woods, likely closer to dark. Better to set up now, somewhere Geralt could process the remnants of his Cat Eye’s potion in peace, than to worsen their situation hoping for reprieve in the village. They found the bandit camp easily enough, tucked away a stone’s throw from the road and nestled in the security and privacy of a nook of trees and underbrush.

“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t stay in that old bandit camp, Geralt?” Jaskier asked gently, stopping their horses on the road where he could just see it through the foliage. If Geralt had ‘been here before’, he likely had ‘killed here before’.

“Corpses should be long gone,” Geralt said disinterestedly. As if that were the same as saying ‘everything will likely be freshly laundered and clean’. Jaskier wrinkled his nose, but it would have to be enough. It helped to see that Geralt was obviously keen to the idea of staying somewhere he had been before, somewhere he was somewhat familiar with. He knew it was somewhat hidden amidst the forest. Close enough to the road to flee if needed and for beasts to mostly avoid it, tucked away enough to be passed over by the untrained eye.

“Then that’s where we’ll stay.”

He let Geralt get down on his own, lingered near enough to help if needed but knew that ailing witchers needed assistance (as much as they might deny it) just as dearly as they needed some measure of independence. A man simply didn’t survive on his own for decades and walk away from that with a healthy perspective on accepting help. Geralt had been doing this alone for longer than he even knew Jaskier. He had survived decades of traveling alone. Sometimes it helped for the bard to remind himself of that.

Other times, it hurt to think that surely in those days the witcher must have suffered. He didn’t know to know how many times Geralt might have almost died in the woods alone. He avoided lingering on the thought too long, afraid that thinking about it would invite that fate into his life somehow.

Jaskier did a cursory check of the little encampment, just as he might do if _he_ were traveling alone and making use of abandoned lodgings. Geralt was right, the corpses had long been dragged off. There was a patch of bald ground still ruddier than the rest – blood – but otherwise the place was remarkably clean, considering. No scent of death or decomposition. It must have been some time since Geralt came through.

There were two tents, both threadbare from the elements, but still more than nothing – though Jaskier hoped they wouldn’t be camp-bound long enough to need them. The remnants of a fire pit sat empty and unused between them. One of the bandits must have dragged a log between the tents to sit on, because it was there – convenient and idle. Jaskier nearly thought fate was being kind to them for once.

It took everything in him not to ask Geralt how he felt, how long he thought he might need before they could leave. It would help to plan ahead, but it would also serve to remind Geralt that here and now, he was the weak link in the party. It would drive him deeper into his stoicism. That helped no one.

Jaskier settled the horses, set them up with their feed harnesses, and watched all the while as Geralt blindly picked out a spot to kneel in the camp. The witcher went down to his knees gracefully, curled either hand into a fist to rest upon his thighs, and tilted his chin up – as though facing the sky despite the trees that blocked it.

Then he stayed that way, deathly still and silent, swayed only by the minute rocking of his heartbeat. If Jaskier had not seen it before, it might have frightened him. Meditation. Witchers could pass enormous amounts of time through sheer meditation alone. There was something strangely beautiful about it; the straight curve of Geralt’s back, the pristine nature of his posture. It reminded Jaskier of the women he once met in a teahouse in his travels, framed in expensive silks and fabrics that swallowed them in stunning ways, always moving around through the slightest motion of their feet beneath their kneeled legs. It took extensive self-control to maintain posture like that for long periods of time, even more so to fall into meditation that was both wholly consuming and yet utterly aware of one’s surroundings.

Geralt was waiting out the worst of the Cat Eye’s potion in the way he knew best now that he was free to do so – no longer bound to the road or to returning to the village. Jaskier could see in the lines of the man’s body how much it helped to fall into such a practiced exercise. His shoulders fell not so tightly around his neck anymore, and the taut muscles of his face had smoothed out. This was the best way for him to self-mitigate what stimuli he couldn’t control, the best way to filter it.

And once again Jaskier was struck by the fact that Geralt trusted him enough to fall into such a state of mind in his presence. That he trusted Jaskier to handle the horses, to mind the camp and watch his back while he focused himself of controlling as much of his recovery as he could.

It meant more dreaded silence for Jaskier. But sometimes love meant being quiet so one could better listen to their partner, their needs. Jaskier settled himself atop the log and contented himself in watching Geralt at peace. That had been the goal, after all. Peace.

At some point Jaskier must have dozed off, because when he woke Geralt was beside him, leaning back against the log, his thigh flush with the bard’s – warm and steely. His blindfold was gone, his pupils thin slits again. Dusk approached., casting the woods in a muted half-light. Jaskier’s mouth felt tacky from his nap and silently, Geralt passed him a canteen – the witcher’s canteen. Jaskier drank from it gratefully, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and asked, “Better?”

Geralt nodded.

“How long were you waiting for me to wake?” Jaskier asked, feeling a bit abashed for having fallen asleep somewhere along the way. But the woods had been so peaceful to listen to. Between the birdsong around them, the hush of the wind in the leaves and the reassuring rhythm of Geralt’s breathing, he had just… slipped away. Would explain why he was leaning back against the log now instead of on it. Must have shifted down at some point. Better that than falling over like a graceless lout.

The pleasant day was waning. A chill was beginning to creep into the air, and yet with Geralt beside him, Jaskier found himself to be comfortably warm. The man was like a furnace. Jaskier couldn’t help but press in a little closer.

“Not long,” Geralt said.

Jaskier didn’t bother to ask how long it had taken for Geralt to recover. That wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was that Jaskier had been able to make the right decisions that led to this: Geralt, peaceful and without pain. And that Geralt had trusted him enough to let him try. More and more Jaskier felt as though he were no mere tag along or convenient company. More and more, he felt he earned his keep.

He had never used to worry about such things. His life had been devoted to the pursuit of art, the telling of stories and merrymaking. He went where the wind blew him, drank with however caught his attention, loved fast and moved on just as quickly. This was new. Strange, even. To have responsibilities and _like_ it. Yet here he was, thigh to thigh with a witcher. For once, he found himself in a place he’d rather be more so than a tavern singing. It felt important to be there in that moment.

They enjoyed the silence – sleepy and soft as the light faded from the wood. Neither seemed eager to go. Reluctantly, after a time, Jaskier said, “We should probably head back before it gets too dark.”

Geralt grunted and said, “No… I think we should stay. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

That was witcher speak for gratefulness, Jaskier had learned. They cared not for coin or trinkets, their only utility to purchase them food or board or sex. Witchers therefore didn’t give physical gifts (other than weapons, occasionally) and rarely spoke their gratitude. Instead, witchers appeared to give gifts through experiences rather than items. Memories. Shared time.

That night Geralt showed Jaskier the stars in a way the bard had never been quite so bold as to experience alone in the woods. Took him out to a field not far from their camp where they could hide in the tall meadow reeds and make childish beds in the blanket of their cover. They laid flat on their backs like boys, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder, and quietly Geralt pointed out the constellations that Vesemir had taught him as a lad – similar and yet so different from the way it had been explained to him in Oxenfurt. Witchers had different purposes for the stars and different stories to go with them – and yet Jaskier found his love for knowledge suspended instead by an even greater discovery: Geralt loved to talk of lore, of the things that had been trained into his very bones. He quiet witcher who rarely spoke was detailing each star almost animatedly, explaining the monsters that correlated with them, how the stories came to be. The moment Jaskier realized it, recognized that spark in the witcher’s eyes for what it was, he saw in hindsight all the times Geralt had been eager to share his knowledge of lore or monsters and Jaskier just had not understood the significance of the act. This was Geralt’s life, his everything – and he was sharing it with Jaskier.

Geralt’s smile as he recalled Vesemir’s teachings, his gestures, the fire in his eyes, all of it made the stars look pale by comparison. A ‘thank you’ that Jaskier would not soon forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who has eyes that are incredibly sensitive to light and prone to migraines, every time I had Geralt take a Cat Eyes Potion only to walk out of the cave a second later, I always felt horribly guilty about it.


	3. Touch-Starved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaer Morhen taught the witchers not to want. Jaskier seeks to fix that.

Jaskier couldn’t say when the realization had struck him. It came to him as most subtle changes in thinking do - slowly, like bread crumbs picked up over time, leading him to the inevitable. Geralt was touch starved.

And not because he disliked touch.

On the contrary, the witcher was a glutton for it, it was more that the man didn’t _ask_. He didn’t know how. In Kaer Morhen, the young boys had been taught only what they needed to know. Vesemir, as far as Jaskier could understand, was the only mentor Geralt had that had shown even a modicum of affection and even that had been held at arm’s length. Not that the bard could blame them, he supposed, once Geralt had _explained_ one night, too deep in his ale to stop, that most witcher-children don’t survive the trail of the grasses.

“And even if they do,” Geralt had groused, “Witchers don’t die in their beds.”

Witchers were plucked from their families, starved of love for everyone’s protection, then if they survived the transformation they were released into a world that would just as likely kill them as the grasses should have. Why grow attached to someone meant to die? Why show them anything else other than what the world would later show them? It set everyone up for failure, or so Geralt explained.

“That’s stupid,” Jaskier had said, the words rounded with laughter because _surely_ Geralt had been jesting. Using his ignorance about witchers against him. Only... Geralt flinched in that minute way witchers did - that way only the observant might catch - and hid his face in his mug again.

_oh._

So Jaskier did what the bard did best: he instigated. His career hadn’t come about by sitting down and waiting for change, after all. He put himself out there in the way he did all things. Same as how he had cowed the witcher into allowing him to become a (at first begrudging) traveling companion. Same as how he infected the lands with his music, normalized his presence at court affairs. Change was a matter of repetition, and it had to start somewhere.

So Jaskier started simply - with Geralt’s hair.

“There are better ways to keep it out of your face during your hunts, you know,” Jaskier said simply one evening as he watching the witcher bathe. Geralt hadn’t seemed keen on the company - no doubt because bathing was generally something someone did in private - but he also hadn’t argued beyond one singular growl the moment he realized Jaskier was not only joining him in the room, but intended to _converse_.

“I know,” Geralt rumbled, a strange curl to his mouth. It was obvious this was a conversation the man had heard before - one he didn’t enjoy having. “You wouldn’t be the first to say I should cut it.”

Jaskier blinked, legs crossed, and then laughed - the room filling with steam and the melody of his amusement. 

“Heavens, no ~ I’d never even suggest it, Geralt,” Jaskier said, running a hand through his own hair. “I’m quite envious of your length. I tried to grow mine out once, you know. Just looked ratty. You’ve got a luscious mane and any man or woman who suggests you sheer it needs a swift boot to the ass, honestly.”

Geralt blinked at him, nearly owlishly, and that made something odd in Jaskier’s breast twist. It wasn’t attraction. Jaskier _knew_ attraction, he was no stranger to bed or _stranger’s beds_ or how attraction more often than not led to bed. This was... different. Something people sang about rather than acted upon. Something to tuck away and think about later.

“Then...?” The witcher prompted, confused.

“Can I show you?” Jaskier asked. He kept it neutral, simple; resisting the urge to let his excitement slip lest Geralt refuse on instinct. The man leaned back against the wall of the tub, and regarded him for a long, suspicious moment. Jaskier had planned this, though. There was no better time to persuade a witcher than fresh from a victorious hunt, made soft by a decent meal and a long soak. And lavender, of course, he always spiced Geralt’s baths with lavender. His keener sense of smell seemed to get more from it than any human. Already Geralt’s eyes looked heavy and pleased.

“Fine.”

Jaskier stood from his stool, then hefted it up and gracefully brought it over so he might perch easily behind Geralt. A lot had changed since they first started traveling. The witcher no longer fidgeted uneasily any time the bard placed himself at his back or out of eyesight. That curious feeling in his breast curled again.

Jaskier took a brush from the little table he had placed aside before hand, revealing that he had planned this, and gently began the process of brushing Geralt’s hair. He started at the ends – free of all manner of monster gunk now, but still as tangled as a feral child fresh from the woods. He worked his way up as he asked this and that about Geralt’s hunt, distracting him with easy topics of conversation that the witcher could easily be swayed into.

Geralt was not one for talking, but the witcher could never _quite_ resist the urge to talk about monsters. Particularly if there was something to correct.

“A bruxa,” Jaskier commented idly, more than aware of the correct answer as he said, “I thought they were those great, hulking bats. How did they manage to make you bleed from your ears?”

That had gotten Geralt started, alright. Bruxa were often curvaceous women, their flesh looking as though they had been carved from marble rather than pink, living flesh. The were slight in comparison to the sort of vampire Jaskier had been referring too.

“They tend to attack by vocalizing,” Geralt said, his conversation made smoother the more Jaskier brushed his hair and soothed his mind, lulling the witcher into something soft and malleable. “They have secondary vocal chords in their throat capable of hitting far higher pitches than humans. They weaponize that asset and use directional blasts of both force and sound to disorient their prey. A normal man would faint, but a witcher—”

“Bleeds from their ears and shakes it off?” Jaskier chuckled, grateful that the witcher’s back was to him as the thought made his smile falter. He kept picturing the sight of blood running down either side of Geralt’s neck. It had taken a while to clean his ears of it, either opening clogged with dried blood. It was partially why Jaskier had been speaking more softly all evening – afraid to further hurt Geralt’s already sensitive, wounded ears.

“Hmm,” Geralt said in agreement, leaning back into Jaskier’s hands as the man finished with the brush, set it aside, and began to comb his fingers through long white strands – looking for the natural lay of the man’s hair. Beneath him the witcher shivered.

“Did I hurt you?” Jaskier asked, “Thought I got all the knots.”

It took a moment for the witcher to understand the question. He clenched his jaw, struggling with some foreign battle, and finally said, “No.”

Ah. He didn’t know how to say that he liked it, Jaskier realized. That he wanted _more_. That would be a battle for another day, showing the witcher that it was okay to _want_ rather than live by need alone. For now, this small admission would be enough.

Jaskier hummed, that little sound of acknowledgement bleeding instinctively into a song rather all on its own. It was a village lullaby he had heard somewhere another – one that lacked words, relying on soft and lingering tones instead. He split Geralt’s hair into sections, then deftly began to thread them into one another with deft fingers.

Jaskier had lived with sisters, once. He remembered how his mother would braid their hair. How they asked for him to learn as well because when they sat in a train, braiding one another, one person always got left out – who better for that person to be than Jaskier with his closely shorn hair? It had become a love language for him. A form of taking care of others.

Perhaps the witcher was not the only one getting anything out of this, Jaskier realized.

Geralt let out a small noise, once or twice. Quickly snuffed, nearly hidden beneath Jaskier’s humming, but there all the same. Jaskier wondered if the man would become more vocal with time, just as he no longer flinched when the bard slipped behind him.

He hoped so. Jaskier was a man bred from a love of music – and never had he heard a sound quite so lovely as Geralt’s softness, if only because it was so rare. All the while, Geralt leaned into his fingers like a hound pressing against its master’s leg.

He weaved silver strands, as soft and silken as pouring milk, one into another until they formed a stunning patterning of lacing strands from the back of Geralt’s head to just past his shoulders. He tied the tail off with a ribbon, a rich gold color, and took one last chance to run his hands from Geralt’s temples back to the nape of his neck, searching for fly-aways he knew wouldn’t be there.

“There,” he said, digging his thumbs into the meat of Geralt’s shoulders and massaging lightly, keen to transfer his momentum into more progress while he had it. Geralt let out a soft huff through slack lips – eyes hooded, nearly closed. “Finished.”

Geralt opened his eyes at that, and sensing the man would want to see what Jaskier had done, Jaskier grabbed two mirrors. One for Geralt to hold, the other for him to help.

“Hold up yours, yes, just like that,” Jaskier said, then angled his own so that Geralt might see the reflection of Jaskier’s handiwork. The witcher stilled, and for a very long moment, he just stared. Jaskier was just beginning to wonder if perhaps he was wrong in thinking he could manage to sway Geralt with practicality – after all the braid _was_ an excellent solution to his hair troubles – when Geralt handed the mirror back to him.

“That works.”

Jaskier set the mirrors aside, grinning victoriously even as he forced a little sass into his tone to avoid suspicion.

“Oh, so generous of you to say, master-dear. “That works”. No “Jaskier, you genius”! Not even a “you did a lovely job, I’ve never looked so handsome”!”

Geralt snorted.

“I never look handsome.”

Jaskier kicked the tub and said, “I will kill you myself and steal your chiseled jawline if you ever dare to lie like that to me again.”

Geralt leaned back, his long tail hanging over the back of the tub as he pressed the top of his head against Jaskier’s belly and said, “Is that so?” with a smirk of all things.

Oh, this had worked so much more nicely than Jaskier had thought. His stomach did a little flip at the freely given contact. The dampness from the witcher’s hair began to seep into his shirt, and yet Jaskier couldn’t even begin to care. He’d crawl into the tub fully clothed if that meant Geralt would start seeing himself as a human with more rights to happiness than the lies that Kaer Morhen and society had beat into him.

“So, what do you think?” He asked, tucking one stray hair back from Geralt’s brow. The lock was too short, unevenly shorn from the rest of his hair; likely the result of a claw just narrowly dodged. Jaskier pet the short lock back into the folds of Geralt’s hair, strangely fond of the little thing.

He wondered what it would look like in the morning after drying in its braid all night. Soft and wavy, framing the wolf’s grumpy morning face.

“Worth trying,” Geralt said with a hum, eyes closing – pressing into Jaskier. “You’ll have to do it again for the next contract. See how it works.”

With the witcher’s eyes closed, Jaskier let himself smile openly. No grins, no charming flashes of teeth. It wasn’t Jaskier’s smile – but rather Julian’s. The small boy who used to braid his sister’s hair. The young man who struck out on the road to follow his dreams, before he had to change to make them happen. He smiled, soft and fond, and pet Geralt’s hair lightly – all in the guise of making sure every strand was in order – as he said, “The least I can do in return for a good story.”

“Hmm,” the witcher hummed, the sound no longer an answer so much as acknowledgment that Jaskier had spoken, that Geralt was there and present, but too relaxed beneath his touch to really know what was said or what to say.

The bard watched his witcher doze contently beneath his touch. The white wolf tamed, but for a moment, by want instead of need. One day Jaskier would kiss the crown of that sleepy head, when he was brave enough.

But that would come all in good time for both of them. Subtle changes, small and steady.

**Author's Note:**

> I take prompts via Tumblr (Funkzpiel) or via comments. Can't guarantee what I will or will not get to, but prompts are always welcome.


End file.
